


What Dreams May Come

by lackluster_lexicon



Category: Avengers: Earth's Mightiest Heroes, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M, Nightmares, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:59:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lackluster_lexicon/pseuds/lackluster_lexicon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce is no stranger to nightmares. As it turns out, neither is Clint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Dreams May Come

**Author's Note:**

  * For [viperf0x](https://archiveofourown.org/users/viperf0x/gifts).



> Birthday gift fic for viperf0x! 
> 
> Also - I largely had MCU (and maybe a bit of my RP) in mind, but I'll admit to borrowing quite a bit of Bruce's dream sequence from episode 2x22 of 'A:EMH.' Because I'm a shameless universe masher-upper.

“There. That should do it.”

Bruce fastened the bandage around Clint’s right tricep and rose from the bed, brushing a quick hand against Clint’s knee. Clint offered a shy smile in thanks, and Bruce returned it before lowering himself to the floor to pack up the first aid equipment.

“Next time you almost get eaten by a giant snake-creature, though, you could call for back-up,” he said, hoping he sounded more good-natured than condescending. When Clint didn’t respond, Bruce looked up –

And Clint wasn’t there.

Bruce stood, but the bed was vacant – turned, and so was the rest of the room, only he wasn’t in Clint’s room anymore. He was back in Harlem, alone amid barbed-wire topped fences and sagging brick walls…

And then something roared, and someone else screamed in what very distinctly sounded like pain, and Bruce was in a full sprint before he could stop to remind himself that the roar couldn’t have come from the Hulk, which was what he’d expected to see when he rounded a corner and found Clint in the grasp of…something. It was as though Bruce was trying to peer through fogged glass; whatever had Clint refused to come into focus, and Bruce’s eyes kept involuntarily sliding away from it to focus on Clint, who appeared barely conscious and whose right arm was almost certainly broken. As best as Bruce could tell, the creature had Clint by his left arm and was seeking to repeat the injury, and, before Bruce could stop to question the lunacy of what was happening, he was running full-tilt –

A blow to the gut and Bruce was flying, then crashing into the asphalt before rolling to a stop against a nearby warehouse. Clint bellowed a curse, and Bruce looked up in time to watch Clint’s humerus snap with a crack that turned Bruce’s stomach. By the time Bruce climbed to his feet, the creature released Clint, leaving him in a broken heap in the street in favor of turning to Bruce.

_“Give me the Hulk.”_

Only then did Bruce realize what was truly wrong. Heart pounding, blood rushing, adrenaline pumping – Bruce should have Hulked out as soon as he turned the corner. And with that realization came another, even more alarming one as he tried to concentrate…

He couldn’t transform. He could feel the Hulk, just out of reach, but he couldn’t bridge the gap between them, couldn’t grasp on long enough to pull the Hulk to the fore.

“I – ”

Another crack, and Clint skittered across the concrete toward Bruce from the force of the blow to his ribcage. Bruce surged forward and made it three steps before he was once again lifted from his feet and slammed into the warehouse side – only this time he was held there by this force he could touch but not clearly see. Within moments Clint joined him.

_“GIVE ME THE HULK.”_

“I can’t!”

It pulled Clint back and smashed him back into the wall.

“Just take me! Take me, please, leave him alone – ”

WHUMP. Clint’s head bounced against the brick, then dropped forward. Listless.

“Stop, Jesus, please, just stop – ”

WHUMP.

**“I SAID STOP.”**

And like the rending of fabric, the rage finally tore through the fear, and Bruce easily gave way to the behemoth as it –

\---

Bruce jolted awake, eyes flying open to see nothing but the green LED clock announcing an ungodly hour on his nightstand. For a moment all he could do was blink and breathe to slow his racing heart until he was relaxed enough to release his white-knuckled hold on the mattress and sit up.

It was 5:03 AM, and it had just been a dream. He’d last seen Clint at 9:56 PM, after they had spent the evening coddling Clint’s canine companion Lucky and catching up their respective reading – a calm night in to put themselves at ease before Clint left for another long, overseas SHIELD mission tomorrow. Or today, rather. Bruce hadn’t been in the field in weeks and had no expectation thereof in the near future…

Yet he couldn’t shake the aftershock of the dream – of course, now that he was awake, he could clearly recognize that it hadn’t made sense, but it had _felt_ so fucking _real_ – so he left his bed and padded around the room before deciding that, no, he was going to be fighting nausea and nerves all night unless he took some progressive action. Of course, walking to Clint’s room was the easy part; it took Bruce considerably longer to work up the nerve to knock (mostly because he felt guilty waking Clint, who also rarely slept well, if at all), and then, he only managed it after a yelp and a crash from inside.

“Clint?” Bruce didn’t bother trying to hide the panic in his voice, especially not after he tried to open the door and found it locked. “Clint, are you okay?”

A muffled swear, and then Clint’s voice: “Bruce?” The door swung open to reveal a disheveled but otherwise unharmed Clint, and Bruce could feel himself virtually deflating with relief.

“…hi.” Clint scrubbed at his face and leaned against the doorframe. “I, um…I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Huh? Oh, no, no. I…I, ah, couldn’t sleep. Or…woke myself up.” Bruce swallowed and looked to Clint just as he lowered his hand, and Bruce added almost automatically, “With a nightmare.”

Clint swallowed, too – Bruce could tell by the bob of Clint’s Adam’s apple – and in the silence that followed Bruce was certain that he had shared too much, had crossed a line into an intimate place where he didn’t belong. They had spent quite a bit of time together, but Clint, like Bruce, didn’t just leap into any level of intimacy, and not with just anyone. And frankly, Bruce wouldn’t blame Clint at all for wanting to leave their friendship where it was, with nights spent reading in silence and days spent tending to the individual business. It wasn’t as though Bruce was known for providing stability in any sense, after all, though that was just as much the fault of media sensationalization as it was his own history.

But then Clint nodded and pushed the door open all the way as an invitation to Bruce.

“Yeah. Me, too.”

Bruce took the hint and followed Clint into his room. The only other times Bruce had been in there had been when he’d been administering some fairly intensive first aid – which in itself was a rare occurrence since Clint was more than capable of tending to his own wounds – but he knew Clint didn’t typically keep a desk lamp and personal belongings on the floor next to an overturned side table.

“Sorry ‘bout the mess,” Clint murmured, and Bruce barked a breathy, nervous laugh.

“Seen worse.”

Bruce expected Clint to take a seat on the edge of the bed, but instead he climbed right back in and flopped onto his back, left arm slung across his eyes. Unsure of what to do, Bruce remained standing and silent until Clint lifted his left arm to look to Bruce (to check if he was still there?), then patted the space beside him with his right.

“C’mere.”

Without question, Bruce did as he was told and joined Clint, who rolled onto his stomach as Bruce settled onto his back. As Clint shoved his right arm under his pillow, he lay his left one across Bruce’s chest, letting his fingers curl against Bruce’s shoulder, and Bruce responded in kind by laying one hand on Clint’s forearm and the other against his bicep. They lay like that in silence for so long that Bruce was certain Clint must have fallen back asleep until Clint spoke.

“What’d you dream about?”

Bruce paused, largely out of embarrassment. Was it appropriate to tell Clint he’d dreamed about him? Then again, considering the circumstances…

“You.” Bruce cleared his throat as the vivid fear of the dream returned. “Um…you were being attacked, and I…I couldn’t help you. As the Hulk. I couldn’t change.”

Clint tapped his fingers against Bruce’s shoulder, and the tension Bruce hadn’t realized he’d been holding in his shoulders drained out of him. He then waited, patiently, for Clint to either divulge his own dream or to wish him good night; now that the topic was broached, Bruce knew he didn’t have to ask, but he also knew that just because he’d confided didn’t mean Clint necessarily would, either.

“Dreamed ‘bout you, too.” And Bruce couldn’t help it; he looked to Clint, but Clint kept his gaze averted as he spoke. “SHIELD came for you – as in, y’know, a Hulkbuster kinda way – and when I tried to stop ‘em, they locked me up, too.”

Then Clint looked up at Bruce, and for a moment Bruce thought he should say something, but nothing came to mind that didn’t sound trite – and really, at the end of the day, they didn’t need to speak to communicate. It had been there the whole time, this connection: the silence between them had always been brimming with understanding.

Among other things.

So Bruce smiled and pressed his lips to Clint’s forehead, and Clint sighed and drew closer so he could nest his head against Bruce’s shoulder, and then they both closed their eyes and, together, dropped back into sleep.


End file.
